


Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?

by adr3stia



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Musician Grantaire, OR IS IT, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Stoner Enjolras, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28369899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adr3stia/pseuds/adr3stia
Summary: In which Grantaire is in a band and he performs a special song for his Pythia, the oracle known for being high all the time.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heylookitsr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylookitsr/gifts).



> Hello again!  
> This is a bit different from anything I've written before, so I hope it's any good. Let me know what you think and enjoy!  
> Once again, a huge thank you to my bestie and editor, heylookitsr, who also helped me with the depictions of a high character.

Enjolras stumbled inside the Musain, quickly looking around the room before his gaze stopped on a displeased Combeferre. He tried not to laugh at the way his eyebrows were curling towards each other, and he took a deep breath before speaking.

“Is he here yet?”

Courfeyrac snickered while Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Hello, Enjolras. It’s great to see you, I’m glad to see you sober yet again.” He said, sarcasm dripping off of every word.

“I know, right?” Enjolras said, smiling. “I’m the poster child for sobriety. Weed is bad for your lungs, kids. Now,” he said, clasping his hands together and looking around once more. “Is anybody going to tell me if he’s here yet or do I have to figure that out myself?”

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “He’s in the backroom, loverboy. He’s getting ready for the show. He said he has a gift for, and I quote,  _ our dearest Pythia _ .”

Enjolras snorted. “Remind me to ask him what the hell that means.”

Jehan groaned. “Honey, I love you, but you’ve asked him a thousand times. He just won’t tell you, and you’re too in love with him to look it up.”

Enjolras flushed and waved a dismissive hand in their direction, plopping down in Courfeyrac’s booth and stealing a few fries from his plate, earning a swat to the back of the head. He whined and touched the abused part in pain.

“What the fuck?”

“Buy your own food,” Courfeyrac grumbled, moving his plate further away from him.

Enjolras made a noise of protest and grumbled, waving a hand towards Musichetta and ordering the first thing that came to mind. Musichetta shook her hand with a fond smile at his slurred words and flicked the side of his head with her finger.

“Seriously, what’s with everyone being so violent tonight?”

“You’re late, and you promised you’d be sober.” Said Combeferre, staring him down.

“I doubt I did such a thing. Besides,” he said, holding his gaze. “I’m practically sober, anyway.”

“You make me want to strangle you.”

“I’m trying so hard not to make a dirty joke right now, I hate you so much.”

Against his better judgment, Courfeyrac couldn’t hold back a snort and handed Enjolras a few of his fries, which he accepted eagerly, profusely thanking him.

A few minutes later, Enjolras was halfway through his meal when Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet appeared from the backroom, setting up the last of their equipment. When Grantaire turned towards their small audience and spotted them, Enjolras’ breath hitched a little.

Anyone that wasn’t as gone on him as Enjolras was would have said that Grantaire could clean up nicely, even if his outfit wasn’t anything particularly special. Enjolras, though, was not part of such a crew.

When he came out of the backroom, the collar of his shirt hanging loose over his chest, showing off a small golden chain caressing his collarbones, his thighs clad in skin-tight jeans, and the red guitar swinging off his neck, Enjolras could feel his heartbeat quicken, and some part of him  _ knew _ it was only partly because of the weed.

Grantaire smiled at them, waving in their general direction and winking. Enjolras promptly ignored how Courfeyrac had elbowed his ribs and was muttering something in his ear.

“Your boyfriend looks really good tonight.”

“If he was my boyfriend, this is absolutely  _ not _ where I’d be sitting.” He replied, eliciting a fake offended gasp from his friend.

“I’ll pretend this is the weed talking and not you.”

“It definitely is, you know I love you.”

Courfeyrac simply swatted his arm and stole a few of his fries for par condicio.

After a few moments of rummaging around the stage, the three took their usual places behind their instruments, signaling they were about to start. The whole booth went silent as they waited for Grantaire to introduce the show and, soon enough, Grantaire cleared his throat softly before the mic.

“Good evening, everyone.” He started. “And by everyone, I know I only mean my friends. Hey, bitches.” He waved again for good measure, making Jehan giggle. “We’re going to start with a song that’s for-” he chuckled. “Shit, I don’t even know. A Muse of mine, let’s go with that. I think I’ve talked enough, so let’s just get on with it.”

Joly started strumming the notes of an unfamiliar song, Bossuet’s drums coming in almost immediately. A few cheers erupted from the room and the booth, but Enjolras hadn’t recognized the song. Shortly after, Grantaire began singing, his voice rough and deep.

_ “The mirror's image, it tells me it's home time _

_ But I'm not finished, 'cause you're not by my side.” _

“Hey, loverboy!” Said Feuilly, nudging him. “You’re in a song!” Enjolras rolled his eyes and swatted his arm, his gaze still fixated on how Grantaire was starting to sway to the beat.

_ “And as I arrived I thought I saw you leaving, carrying your shoes _

_ Decided that once again I was just dreaming of bumping into you.” _

Enjolras smiled at the memory that the lyrics had evoked.

It had happened shortly after Enjolras had started smoking, when he still didn’t quite know his limits. It had been late at night, and he had been too out of it to actually realize  _ how _ late it was. His fingers had dialed Grantaire’s number on their own accord, and, in a few moments, Grantaire’s gruff voice was coming in from the speakers.

“I thought I saw you at this party tonight.” Enjolras had slurred, only mildly panicking when he realized just what he was doing.

“What was that?”

“There was this guy, tall, muscular, and with dark hair. I have no idea what was happening, but he was walking barefoot on the grass.”

“Why was he barefoot?” Grantaire had asked, amusement clear even through the phone.

Enjolras had shrugged before remembering Grantaire couldn’t see him. “Dunno. He had his shoes in his hand, though. I thought it was you.”

“Well, what did you do?”

“I hit on you until I realized you weren’t you.”

Grantaire had laughed, the deep rumble sounding weirdly soothing to Enjolras’ heightened sense of hearing. 

“Smoke a little less next time, angel. Or flirt with  _ me  _ instead of flirting with strangers who look like me.”

Needless to say, Enjolras hadn’t done either of those things, but the calls had become more and more frequent.

Enjolras was brought back to the present when Grantaire’s gaze locked with his, almost holding him in place and making him want to squirm in his seat.

_ “Now it's three in the morning and I'm trying to change your mind, _

_ Left you multiple missed calls and to my message you reply, _

_ Why'd you only call me when you're high? _

_ Hi, why'd you only call me when you're high?" _

Grantaire had asked him that same question once. Enjolras had refused to answer, instead burying his hands in the dark curls and pulling him down for a bruising kiss that had tasted of nicotine and vodka - Enjolras’ best kiss, in his humble opinion.

Enjolras kept watching how Grantaire was swinging to the music, the resonance of his voice dripping with every note, his hips thrusting minutely against the guitar and his hands moving up and down the mic stand, his mouth moving dangerously close to the mic.

Having felt said hands running over his body, those hips pinning his, or  _ that mouth, for Heaven’s sake _ , Enjolras had no shame in admitting to himself the utter jealousy he felt towards the objects that could revel in what he was so desperately craving at that moment.

_ “Somewhere darker, talking the same shite, _

_ I need a partner, well, are you out tonight?” _

“He’s out, Taire, he’s right here!” Yelled Jehan, laughing uncontrollably when Enjolras lifted his hand to make his presence known instead of reprimanding them. Grantaire, in response, smiled around the next lyrics.

_ “It's harder and harder to get you to listen _

_ More I get through the gears, _

_ Incapable of making alright decisions, and having bad ideas.” _

Enjolras shuddered at the memory of Grantaire kissing those words on the column of his neck.

“This is a very bad idea, angel.” He had kept repeating. Enjolras had resorted to shutting him up with the oldest trick in the book, claiming his lips once, twice, a million times more, until it didn’t feel like such a bad idea.

Neither of them were known for their rational thinking, anyway.

Enjolras almost missed the repetition of the chorus, too immersed in recalling the memory to care about his surroundings, yet his eyes never leaving Grantaire’s movements.

_ “And I can't see you here, wondering where am I, _

_ It sort of feels like I'm running out of time, _

_ I haven't found all I was hoping to find.” _

Before any of them could register what was going on, Grantaire had unhooked the microphone from its stand and was jumping offstage, crossing the few steps that separated him from their booth and eliciting a roar of cheers from their friends. Enjolras stayed frozen in his spot as Grantaire sang the next few lines right in his face, eyes challenging, a smirk playing on his lips, as his chain swung dangerously close to Enjolras’ fingers and his breath evidently heaved.

_ “You said you gotta be up in the morning, _

_ Gonna have an early night, _

_ And you're starting to bore me, baby, _

_ Why'd you only call me when you're high?” _

Grantaire was starting his guitar solo, hands moving expertly over the strings, but, before he could get very far, Enjolras was gripping the soft material of his shirt, pulling him in for a kiss.

“How’s that for boring,  _ baby  _ ?” He whispered, close enough to the mic to make it resonate through the speaker, a roar of cheer coming from his friends and a few other customers.

Grantaire simply resumed playing as if nothing had happened, a smug smile on his face as he jumped back on stage and finished the song, earning a loud round of applause.

“Thank you for listening, everyone,” Grantaire said, a giddy smile on his face. “Tonight you heard the amazing Bossuet on the drums, and the bass was Joly’s bitch. On the guitar - at least, with the intention of playing it, blame the angel sprawled on that booth for the distraction - was Taire. Thank you.” They waved generally at their small public and retreated to the backroom.

“Alright, now that he’s gone, Enjolras might actually register a single word we tell him.” Said Feuilly in amusement.

“It’s so bizarre,” said Combeferre, snapping his fingers before his eyes and making him flinch, staring at him like one would with a wild animal. “It’s like he’s in a Grantaire-induced trance that wears off when he’s gone.”

“It’s called unresolved sexual tension, doctor.” Said Bahorel, snorting lightly.

“Oh, trust me.” Said Enjolras, lazily stretching his arms. “It was very much resolved.”

They all spoke simultaneously.

“You’re joking, right?” Asked Feuilly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cried Courfeyrac.

“Is he like he is with the guitar in bed?” Wondered Jehan, their eyes wide.

Enjolras nodded solemnly. “Absolutely.”

Jehan stared at him in amazement. “I found myself being jealous of the guitar halfway through the song.”

“You and me both, buddy.” Enjolras patted their hand. “But back off, or I’ll tell Courfeyrac.”

“I’m literally right here.” Said Courfeyrac, eyes wide. “I can hear both my best friend and partner ogling after the same man  _ right in my face _ .”

Jehan cooed. “Oh, baby, don’t be like that.” They said, cupping Courfeyrac’s cheek with their hand. “Until you perform an Arctic Monkeys song like that, I’m forced to ogle after Grantaire, and so is Enjolras.”

“Who’s ogling after who?” Asked Grantaire, sliding in the booth and pressing up against Enjolras, his arms extended on the back of the seat. Jehan squealed.

“We’re ogling after  _ you _ , Music Man. That was amazing!”

Grantaire grinned sheepishly at the praise and at all the compliments that followed and opened his mouth to thank them all. He was interrupted by a tentative finger caressing the beads of his chain, moving to stroke the expense of his chest and collarbones, and closed his eyes, breathing deeply as his eyebrows shot up. He turned his head slightly to find Enjolras, half sprawled on his lap, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and staring at his movements with pure focus.

“Are you alright, angel?” Grantaire asked, smiling.

Enjolras hummed. “Is this the chain I stole for you?”

Grantaire could feel everyone’s gazes on them as he laughed, making Enjolras look up at him. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“I do, of course I do.”

Grantaire ignored the way Enjolras’ eyes kept darting down to his lips. “Did you enjoy the show?”

Enjolras nodded slowly. “I’m trying really hard not to kiss you right now.”

“Then stop trying.”

“Can’t.” He muttered. “I don’t have your full consent.”

“Tell you what.” Said Grantaire, carding his fingers through his hair. “You have my full consent if you’ll let me buy you dinner when you’re sober.”

“I’m half sober, anyway.”

“Is that a yes?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ll let you take me on a date when I’m sober, we even have witnesses who can testify, now can I kiss you,  _ please _ ?”

And, well, when Enjolras was asking so nicely, all Grantaire could do was grip his hair slightly and pull him up for a deep kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Well! I hope this was nice to read as much as it was to write it. Let me know!  
> I know I promised a 16k, and it's on the way, I swear. Someday I'll finish it, in the meantime have dumb one-shots I write in two or three hours.  
> Bye and see you soon!


End file.
